


A McClane By Any Other Name

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You really never do shut up," John marvels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A McClane By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest community, for the prompt 'vicodin'
> 
> * * *

"McClane."

John's not keeping track, but if he _was_ he'd be fairly certain that this is the longest sustained length of time that he's ever heard his surname repeated. The last two days have already easily surpassed Cobb's previous record from the Year of the Suspension, and John's really only counting the time he's been sharing a hospital room with the kid. If he added in the actual road trip, it would surely be in the triple digits. At least this time no police captains almost got punched in the nose, and there's been hardly any profanity. 

"McClane."

John resolutely doesn't look across to the other bed, keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the television mounted from the ceiling. 

"Hey. McClane."

There is a rustling noise, and now he definitely doesn't look, any good humour he was feeling at the thought of the kid going for the World Record draining away quickly. He can't look, because if he does he'll see Matt struggling to sit up straighter on the bed, wincing when the movement pulls on the leg that's been forced ram-rod straight by about a hundred pins and spikes and metal boards, and John will just be reminded, once again, of his failure to keep the kid safe.

"Think just one thing could've gone right," John mutters to himself. "But noooo."

"What?"

"Nothin'," John mutters, shifting a little in his own too-small hospital bed. 

Talking to himself is nothing new – it used to drive Holly crazy – but usually he can keep a tighter rein on it when other people are around. He's not entirely sure what to make of this new _muttering while_ Matt's _around_ development. It's only been, what, four days? Five? He's getting too comfortable around the kid, treating him like… well, _not_ treating him like some vic who's gonna be out of his life as soon as the dust settles. Stupid.

There is a pause then, probably while the kid tries to decide if this sidetrack is worth pursuing. The silence is nothing short of blissful. He's about ready to hope that Matt has given up and decided to retire in his quest for the championship, when—

"So, McClane—"

John groans. "Watchin' TV here, kid."

There's another rustle of the covers. A grunt. And when Matt hisses in pain, John can't stop himself from looking. The kid has propped himself up on one arm, straining to look across at the grainy television screen that John's got angled toward his bed.

"The Kardashians? Really, McClane?"

John has no idea who – or what – a kardashian is, but he does know that his shoulder is aching like a son of a bitch. Lucy's flown to California to be with her mother. The department is already giving him shit about taking "unnecessary risks" and Homeland's on his case about Dumptruck's unauthorized use of the emergency channel. And he really, really just wants to zone out in front of the tube and pretend that the last seventy-two hours never happened. 

"Reality TV," Matt continues. "Reality TV is destroying the fabric of America, do you know that, McClane?" 

John can't stop his brow from rising. 

"You don't want to know how bad this shit is. Not only does reality television glorify the inane and inept, it actually encourages—"

"You're right, kid. I don't want to know." When Matt just huffs, John finds his lips quirking. And even though shutting Matt down before he manages to get into full rant-mode is the best way of _keeping_ him quiet, he finds his own mouth opening anyway. "You got some kind of medical condition? Terminal running-off-at-the-mouth-itis?"

He'd think the kid would be ticked off at the teasing – John knows he probably would, but then there's a list of things about a mile long that twist his chain. Matt just grins. 

"Haha, right? When I was a kid they thought I had ADD or something." Matt leans back on his pillow, sighs. "Turns out I'm just a genius."

"And humble," John drawls.

""Right? Anyway, like I was saying—"

"Isn't vicodin supposed to make you sleepy?"

"Is it?" John shakes his head when Matt's expressive eyebrows crawl up his forehead. "Wow. I feel like I have so much energy right now. I could run a marathon."

"Except for the whole gets winded going up a flight of stairs thing," John says dryly. 

"There's that," Matt concedes. He glances down at his leg. "And the whole incapacitated by medieval torture device thing."

John looks away. The metal and steel contraption on Matt's leg really does look like something found in a torture chamber. He swipes a hand over his head, tries to concentrate on the fuzzy TV screen and the girls with the big hair. "Yeah," he says shortly. "That too."

"McClane—"

He wasn't there when the kid took the hit. Didn't even know it happened until later, when Bowman's men were hauling him to his feet and the kid just sat there, dazed. He remembers barking at him to get his ass up and Lucy shushing him and Matt actually _trying_ , his face twisting at the pain, and only then had John seen the blood soaking his jeans, had realized that the kid's face wasn't just its usual pale but had actually gone sickly ghost-white. He'd gotten to him as quick as he could, called for the goddamn medic, but he'll never forget Matt stumbling, grabbing for the table, sliding awkwardly back down to the concrete floor even as John made an aborted grab that soaked his own shirt with a fresh gout of blood. 

In the whole goddamn weekend, that's the thing he remembers the most.

"I'm tired, kid," John says. "Go to sleep."

"You're tired so I should go to sleep. That is no different than when I was a kid and my mother would get cold, so she'd make _me_ put on a sweater. How does this make sense? Is it some kind of parent thing?"

"You really never do shut up," John marvels. 

"Because if it is, I should remind you that I'm not a kid," Matt says pointedly. "Despite the fact that you seem to be unable to remember my actual name."

"It's going to be Shut The Fuck Up in a minute."

"What?" Matt says, his voice going about two octaves higher. "How does that… that doesn't even make sense!"

John shrugs, as best as he can around his damn sling. "Just lay back down and—"

"I'm not tired," Matt insists stubbornly.

On their mad road trip across the country, one of the things that had impressed John the most about Matt was his determination. If he looks up 'dogged' in the dictionary, he's pretty sure he'd find a picture of the kid. But now? Now he just wants to _not think_ for a while. He specifically wants to not-think about the fact that the kid is in that goddamn hospital bed because of him, and how mentally listing the traits of Matt's that he likes the best is only going to lead to badness. And wrongness. And a whole shitload of other-ness that a fifty-something year old cop has got no business thinking about a kid half his goddamn age. Some kid who thinks of him – if he thinks of him at all – as a father figure at best, an authority figure at worst. 

"Jesus, kid," he sighs. " _Matt_. Then just close your eyes and _rest_." 

That one had always worked with Jack and Lucy, despite their protests. Nine times out of ten they'd pass out within ten minutes of closing their eyes. He can only hope it works just as well on supersmart computer geeks.

Matt crosses his arms. "I'm not—"

"You _want_ me to come over there?"

That one had always worked too, along with the patented I'm Going To Count To Three. And when Matt says nothing, John looks over to reinforce it with the stare that been honed to perfection over the years. He's not entirely sure what he expects to see on Matt's face, but what he finds is a look of… speculation. 

And then the kid fucking _blushes_.

John just isn't sure what to make of that.

"What?" Matt finally splutters out. "You come over here to… No. Okay seriously, McClane. You'll end up pulling out your stitches and then your wound will get infected and next week when, like, one-eyed invaders from Planet 51 try to take over you'll be out of commission and the whole planet will fall to alien domination and it'll totally be my fault. So. You should probably stay over there."

John pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Right," Matt says. "I should… rest."

John turns away and closes his eyes. "Thank you."

The room descends into idyllic silence. There is no sound but the ticking of the oversized clock on the wall, the occasional squelch of soft-soled shoes passing outside in the hallway.

It's peaceful.

At least that's what John tells himself for the first five minutes.

Finally, he sighs. "Kid."

Nothing.

"Hey, kid."

"I have a _name_ , McClane."

"Jeeeeeezus," John mutters. "Fine. _Matthew_."

"And I'm supposed to be _resting_."

John slides his gaze to the other bed, meets Matt's eyes. "Punk."

"Hey, don't blame me," Matt says. "You're the one that's _making_ me rest." 

"Just got your best interests at heart, kid."

"I know," Matt says. And maybe it's the timbre in his voice, maybe it's the look in his eyes, but John finds himself remembering the rest of that god-awful day. The way Matt leaned against him when they were easing him onto the stretcher, long fingers gripping hard on his sleeve. The way he shook the hair out of his eyes – not hiding behind it for once – when the morphine kicked in and he finally calmed down. The way he kept those eyes on John the whole time they were cycling through the emergency room, wide and dark and so fucking trusting. Like the way he's looking at him right now.

Like maybe he's not thinking 'father figure' or 'cop' at all. 

John swallows and lets his attention flick back to the fuzzy television screen, where the big-haired girls are having some kind of heated conversation over a patio lunch, their voices just a muted murmur under the too-quick beating of his heart. 

"So what exactly is wrong with reality TV?" John asks into the silence.

"Wow, okay, seriously? Okay, first, McClane—"

"I have a name too, kid."

Matt is quiet for long enough that John finally looks back, expects to find Matt fiddling with the thin blanket or ducking behind that curtain of hair. But instead Matt squares his shoulders, nods once.

"Okay, John," Matt says softly. "Okay."

John holds his gaze for a long moment before looking away.

Maybe one good thing came out of this after all.


End file.
